by A. Giannetti
“I must drink in accordance with my years,” said Eonis in return before taking a long swallow of the aqua vitae, draining almost all that was left in the water bottle. Immediately, a sparkle entered the old king’s dark eyes, and the exposed parts of his bearded cheeks became flushed. With beads of sweat springing out on his brow, he sprang out of his chair with the alacrity of a young Dwarf, the water bottle slipping unnoticed from his hand.
“Good heavens, I am on fire!” he shouted before rushing off toward the nearby river with his two sons in hot pursuit.
“Can he swim?” asked Elerian of Ascilius as the sound of a loud splash came to his ears.
“No more than any other Dwarf,” replied Ascilius taking a deep draft of his mug of beer. His dark eyes shone with laughter, matching the gleam in Elerian’s gray eyes. “The river is shallow near shore. I am sure that Cordus and Cyricus will pull him out.”
“Perhaps I should go for a walk then, before he returns,” said Elerian, laughing softly now as he rose lithely from his chair and retrieving his fallen water bottle. “I warned him about the potency of the drink, but he may be in an uncertain temper until the effects of the aqua vitae are lessened a bit.”
“I think that I will join you,” said Ascilius. “He might decide that I am guilty by association.”
Walking side-by-side, Elerian and Ascilius hastily left the fire behind, walking toward the midpoint of the dike which was directly in line with the bridgehead. To their left, a steady line of wagons continued to cross the bridge.
“I wish that the wagons were all over on the far side of the river,” grumbled Ascilius to Elerian as they finally came to a stop in the deep band of shadow that lay behind the dike. The sky was still overcast, but in spite of the lack of starlight, Elerian’s gray eyes still saw clearly when he looked over the barrier toward the edge of the forest. In the shadows of the trees, he saw many dark shapes gathering at the edge of the meadow.
“We would be better served if they were, for the enemy is assembling for an assault,’ said Elerian quietly to Ascilius. Ascilius immediately turned to count the wagons remaining on east side of the bridge, waiting for their turn to cross the Caldus.
“It will take at least another half an hour for the last wagon to cross over,” he said grimly to Elerian. “We must hold the dike against the Goblins for at least that long.”
Raising a horn to his lips, Ascilius blew a mighty blast, transforming the peaceful scene behind him. Abandoning their food and drink, Dwarves stamped out their fires and armed themselves before rushing off to gather behind the dike. Eonis and his two sons also appeared, all three of them soaking wet.
“You should cross the bridge and stand with Durio,” Ascilius advised his uncle.
“I will fight here,” insisted Eonis, taking up a position on Ascilius’s left. “The drink that your companion gave me has burned away half my years. I will cleave Goblin skulls once more at least before I take my final rest.”
“Well spoken, father,” said Cordus. “We will both stand beside you,” added Cyricus, echoing his brother.
“My sons will not leave me,” said Eonis to Ascilius in exasperation. “I am the king, but they will not heed my orders to cross the bridge and fight beside Durio.”
“Let them stay then, for there is no safe place tonight outside of the gates of Iulius,” replied Ascilius, taking the side of his cousins.
Just then the sharp pop and crack of leather whips came clearly through the night. Ungainly looking, hairy figures dressed in leather armor and carrying shields and short swords suddenly leaped out of the trees on the far side of the meadow, racing toward the dike on their short, powerful legs.
“The reinforcements that you saw this morning have arrived,” said Ascilius unhappily to Elerian as the mutare were followed by companies of Wood Goblins, their slender, lithe forms contrasting sharply with the bulky, shambling shapes of their changeling allies. Packs of shaggy canigrae ran along the outskirts of the Mordi foot soldiers. Last of all appeared a company of tall Urucs, riding from the wood on black atriors. Long, steely muscles rolled beneath the sleek hides of their fiery mounts which snorted impatiently, eager to join in the coming battle.
Leading the Goblin cavalry were two captains: Zaleuc and beside him, Agar, the same Goblin who had flown from the castella of Galenus to warn Sarius that the Dwarves had recaptured the fortress. It was he who had led the reinforcements Elerian had seen on the road that morning, ordered by Sarius to join with Zaleuc and to delay the retreating Dwarves until the bulk of his army overtook them.
“The little people have repaired the bridge sooner than I would ever have expected,” said Zaleuc harshly to Agar, who rode easily on his left side. “I had hoped to catch most of their wagons on this side of the river.”
“It does not matter,” replied his second in command. “The caravan will not escape us for long. Night has spread its dark, friendly cloak over the land, and the Dwarves are in the open, far from their stony tunnels. Even without the surprise we have waiting for them, we have sufficient force to destroy their army.”
Behind the dike, Elerian watched the mutare, who formed the van of the Goblin host, draw closer to the Dwarf barricade. Around and behind him, Dwarves had formed a defensive line behind the dike.
“The Goblins outnumber us again,” he heard Eonis say grimly to Ascilius as he took in the size of the enemy force advancing across the dark meadow. Eonis could not distinguish features in the dark as Elerian could, but his Dwarf eyes were able to discern the individual, shadowy forms that made up the dark host in front of him. “Our odds of defeating them would have been greatly improved if we could have fought them from the far bank after burning the bridge.” The faint, accusatory note in the old Dwarf’s voice annoyed Elerian, as if Eonis was blaming Ascilius for the wagons still crossing the Caldus.
Ascilius frowned but did not respond, preferring not to start an argument with his uncle with the enemy almost upon them. Glancing sidelong to his left at Ascilius’s craggy face, Elerian saw that red motes now floated in the back of the Dwarf’s dark eyes.
“Let the Goblins and their allies come but a little closer and I will hammer them like nails, however great their numbers are,” he said fiercely to Elerian, gripping his hammer and shield firmly in his powerful hands.
“Tonight my lust for Goblin blood will exceed your own,” Elerian promised his companion as he drew Acris from its sheath with his right hand, at the same time raising his shield with his left.
Just out of bowshot on the meadow, the changelings suddenly halted their advance, ignoring the whips of the Mordi drivers running behind them. Behind them, the Goblin ranks also came to an abrupt stop. Holding their position, the mutare began to make a tremendous din, snarling, roaring, and leaping into the air.
“The changelings lack the courage to attack us without first working themselves up into a savage frenzy,” said Ascilius contemptuously to Elerian. All along the dike, Dwarves began to shout insults in deep voices at the Goblins and their allies, taunting them for their lack of courage.
At the head of his cavalry, licking his lips in anticipation of the slaughter to come, Zaleuc raised a glossy black horn with a silver mouthpiece to his thin lips, blowing a harsh blast upon it which rang out across every corner of the meadow. Other horns echoed his own, and the Mordi driving the mutare cracked their whips more vigorously. Eager to escape the stinging leather wielded by their masters, a few mutare charged forward, shields held out in front of them. As if a dam had burst, the rest of the changelings surged forward, their howling rending the still night air, and their eyes glowing with a hungry, pale light.
“Crossbows,” roared Ascilius.
Elerian heard the thrum of bowstrings and the deadly hiss of steel flying through the air. Changelings stumbled and fell, pierced by the darts that struck among them.
“Not enough are going down to stop their advance,” thought Elerian grimly to himself. The quick and active mutare were proving to be diff
icult targets for the Dwarves, and their heavy steel shields protected them from the crossbow bolts if they were raised in time. Ignoring the deadly quarrels thinning their ranks, the survivors leaped over their fallen comrades, continuing their savage rush toward the dike.
“The battle begins,” thought Elerian calmly to himself as the first of the changelings reached the moat. Effortlessly they leaped across, landing on the top of the dike before recklessly flinging themselves into the midst of the Dwarves below. Stepping swiftly to his right, Elerian stabbed a great wolf like creature through the chest with Acris as it leaped down on him.
“Stop them,” roared Ascilius on Elerian’s left as he crushed the skull of a bearlike creature with a single stroke of his hammer.
On either side of Ascilius and Elerian, Dwarves battled the mutare as they leaped from the top of the dike. The changelings fought strongly but clumsily with their weapons, holding their swords and axes awkwardly in their hairy, long fingered paws. More dangerous were those who suddenly reverted to the bestial side of their natures, casting aside their armaments and fighting with tooth and claw. Swift and sure with their natural weapons, gifted with an unnatural strength, they became dangerous adversaries, careless with their own lives and intent only on killing so that they could drink the blood of their victims.
On his right, Elerian saw a mutare fling itself recklessly on a Dwarf warrior. The Dwarf’s short sword pierced the changeling’s heart, dealing it a fatal wound, but the unnatural vitality of the creature kept it alive long enough for it to close its fanged jaws around the Dwarf’s mail covered throat. A savage wrench of the mutare’s jaws broke the Dwarf’s neck, and the two combatants fell to the ground, still locked in a savage embrace that even death could not break apart.
“Once again these creatures accomplish the purpose for which they were created, spending their lives to weaken the Dwarves by deaths and injuries while their masters watch safely from a distance,” thought Elerian angrily to himself as he stabbed at the mutare who leaped down on him from the top of the dike, the argentum inlaid in Acris’s gleaming sides flashing silver white with each swift, deadly accurate thrust through a hairy throat or savage heart. Light footed, supple as a willow shoot, he avoided the claws and teeth that reached out to rend or tear at him during the changelings’ death throes, remaining unscathed in the midst of the bloody battle that raged around him.
To his left, Ascilius fought more deliberately, using his shield and strength to fend off the changelings’ attacks while he crushed their skulls or legs with Fulmen. Shorter than the beast men, he was even more powerful, flinging aside with his shield those who leapt on him in an effort to bear him down to the ground. The mutare he sent sprawling never regained their feet, for Ascilius sprang on the with the ferocity of a lion, Fulmen flashing like lightning as it crushed steel and bone as if they were no more than soft clay. To Ascilius’s left, Eonis fought in similar fashion, rejoicing in the newfound strength given to him by Elerian’s potent drink. His two sons were hard put to guard his back and sides as, white braids flying and dark eyes flashing fiercely, he struck down any mutare who came within reach of his ax.
Because the changelings were not present in their usual overwhelming numbers, the bestial forms leaping from the dike into the Dwarf ranks gradually lessened. Greatly outnumbered now, those that made it over the earthen barrier were quickly overcome by the Dwarves who surrounded them as soon as their paws touched ground.
“The last of the wagons will cross the bridge soon, and the Goblin commander has already spent his most potent weapon,” said Ascilius elatedly to Elerian during a lull in the fighting. “We have taken losses, but we still have strength enough to resist the Mordi, for even at night, they are less fearsome opponents in the open than the mutare. Let them come at us and we will teach them a lesson they will not soon forget before we retreat to the far bank of the river.”
Before Elerian could reply, a sudden bellowing that might have come from the throat of one of the great bulls of the plains rent the air. Looking over the top of the dike, Elerian saw that the ranks of Mordi foot soldiers standing just out of crossbow range had parted before two huge figures striding through their midst. Protected from throat to knees by heavy, steel tunics made of blackened, overlapping steel scales, they carried huge hammers in their right hands and great black shields on their left arms.
“They have brought Trolls with them,” groaned Ascilius to Elerian, his jubilation turning at once to dismay. “These monsters will be at the height of their powers in the dark.
“Perhaps I can remedy that,” replied Elerian. “Light has served me well in the past. Let me try it again.”
Raising his right hand, he watched with his third eye as a golden orb flew from his fingertips, blossoming into a bright mage light high in the sky above the Goblin army. His hope of turning the tide of the battle with magic abruptly faded, however, as a red orb flew up from behind the advancing Trolls, first engulfing and then extinguishing his mage light. When Elerian looked for the source of the counter spell, he saw that one of the mounted Urucs was just lowering his upraised right hand.
“He is a mage, too,” said Ascilius who had also observed the Uruc who had cast the counter spell. “Magic will not help us while he lives.”
“Then strength of arms must suffice,” replied Elerian resolutely. “After all, there are only two Trolls, one for each of us. Let us down these creatures and show the Goblin captain the power of the weapons that we now wield.”
“Stand ready then,” replied Ascilius, fiercely tightening his grip on Fulmen with his right hand as the Trolls ran toward the dike, surprisingly agile for creatures of such enormous bulk. Following close behind them, through the gap that had opened in the ranks of the Mordi, came the Goblin cavalry, led by Zaleuc and Agar.
THE BATTLE OF THE MEADOW
On either side of him, Elerian saw more than one sturdy Dwarf stiffen in fear, but no one broke and ran as the Trolls thundered toward them. Elerian now saw how clever Zaleuc had been to use his mutare first. Still preoccupied with the remaining changelings, the Dwarves were only able to launch a few crossbow bolts at the Trolls and the Goblin cavalry which followed close behind them. Most of the darts were aimed at the Trolls, rebounding harmlessly from their thick armor or heavy shields. The few quarrels that struck some exposed part of their greenish white flesh inflicted only shallow wounds in their stony hides. A few quarrels missed entirely, for the hands of some of the defenders shook as they aimed their crossbows at the terrifying monsters bearing down on them.
By fate or design, the two Trolls arrived at the dike at exactly the point defended by Ascilius and Elerian. In unison, they leaped over the moat that fronted the earthen barrier, their powerful legs carrying them over the trench to the top of the dike. As their huge, clawed feet sank deeply into the soft dirt of the barrier in front of him, Elerian risked a quick sidelong glance at Ascilius on his left. Barely waist high to the monster towering over him, the Dwarf waited with Fulmen held high, no tremor of fear evident in his grim face or sturdy frame.
“I could not ask for a more fearless or resolute companion,” thought Elerian warmly as he turned his attention to the Troll in front of him. The enormous creature loomed up against the night sky like a small hillock as it momentarily paused on the summit of the dike, unhurriedly considering its next move as a hail of crossbow darts rattled harmlessly against its armor or lightly scored the exposed portions of its flinty flesh.
With a quick, fluid thrust, Elerian stabbed at the Troll’s massive left thigh with Acris, but with equal speed, the creature swept its great shield down, its rounded edge deflecting Acris toward the ground, the argentum inlaid in the sword’s blade flashing briefly silver-white at the contact. Barely in time, Elerian leaped back, the Troll’s heavy hammer whistling past his face and chest as it cut through the air in a great arc. His heart lurched when, out of the left corners of his eyes, he saw Ascilius lifted off his feet by a blow to his shield from the second
Troll.
Elerian’s attention returned to his own adversary as, contemptuously ignoring his smaller opponent, the Troll in front of him leaped off the dike, landing well past him, its large feet and enormous weight crushing the Dwarves who were unlucky enough to be standing where it landed. The Troll was quickly joined by its companion. Standing shoulder to shoulder as they swung their hammers and shields in broad irresistible sweeps, they began clearing a path through the Dwarves who stood between them and the bridge, leaving a trail of broken bodies behind them as they advanced inexorably toward the bridgehead where the last of the wagons had begun to cross over the Caldus. Running close behind them were Eonis and his two sons.
“There is nothing wrong with the old fellow’s courage,” thought Elerian admiringly to himself as the pounding of hundreds of clawed feet on the ground brought him back around to face the dike and the Goblin cavalry, which had now reached the brink of the moat. Zaleuc, who had guided his atrior toward the midpoint of the dike, was now only a few feet away from Elerian, whom he recognized at once by his height, for he stood head and shoulders above the Dwarves around him. Bunching the steely muscles in its sleek hindquarters, Zaleuc’s atrior cleared the moat and the dike in a long, sinuous leap, touching down on Elerian’s left, its hooked claws digging deeply into the damp, turf covered ground.
As the Goblin’s mount reared and twisted to its left in an effort to strike him down with its clawed front feet, Elerian locked eyes with its rider, recognizing the cruel visage of Zaleuc immediately, even though the Uruc wore an iron helm with a nosepiece. A surge of hatred flowed through his veins as he leaped back, the razor sharp, hooked claws of the atrior barely missing his face and chest. Immediately, the goblin steed dropped to all fours, darting its narrow black head at Elerian with the blinding speed of a striking serpent as it attempted to close its fanged mouth on his throat. Bracing himself, Elerian swiftly brought up his shield with his left arm to fend off the creature’s deadly mouth. Taking a long step back and to his right, he raised Acris high and struck off the atrior’s extended head clean off midway down its long neck. Cursing loudly as his headless mount collapsed under him, Zaleuc swung his right leg up over his saddle, leaping lightly to the ground in front of Elerian. Dark shield held for defense on his left arm, he attacked Elerian at once with the black sword that he carried in his long right hand.